


you're not as [...] as you think

by falsnoi



Category: Vast Error
Genre: Canon Divergence, Mental Health Issues, Minor Violence, Other, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Quadrant Vacillation, Relationship Issues, Self-Harm, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:48:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25290430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/falsnoi/pseuds/falsnoi
Summary: As it turns out, even literal Thief of Time can't run from their problems forever
Relationships: Dismas Mersiv/Murrit Turkin
Comments: 3
Kudos: 66





	you're not as [...] as you think

The slow progress of the game is the first thing that throws you off the guard and you don't have a chance to get back to being comfortable because your planet never stops screwing you over.

A few days into life in the scorching sun and air filled with dust particles you start to accept your existence is completely and utterly fucked for the foreseeable future. Your skin becomes tight and uncomfortable in a way that's weirdly familiar, and the heat makes it painful to think.

During the few moments of rest in the shade, you're forced to admit your plan to save everyone failed and you're just a disappointment, after all.

You're not sure if all of your friends are okay and you painfully long for the near omniscience your hive's offered, and you regret not asking Metatron about more stuff before getting into an argument about… her.

You clench your jaw at the mere thought she's still out there.

You've been fighting for several hours and you're down to your last pair of shades. You could alchemise some more, of course, but you start to feel more and more annoyed about the way they feel. There's nobody you have to put on the show anymore, so why is it so hard to get rid of your tendencies? Are they part of you now? Have they always been? You don't know.

What you know, though, is that you're exhausted and there's a weird object almost directly above you.

You stare at it quietly.

It's a gate, high in the air – though not high enough to stop you – and it's luring you with its sheer presence.

You have no reason to not give into the temptation, so you shake off the sand off your clothes and you effortlessly make the jump essential to cross it.

For a moment, the thrill of finally doing something other than mindless brawling makes you genuinely excited, and you close your eyes, imagining you're in your hive.

Surprisingly, when you open them after landing on the other side, you're not greeted with a familiar wasteland of your planet, but a cavern illuminated by a soft pink glow.

You don't have a chance to digest this turn of events – there's a loud bang behind you and you automatically tense up, mentally preparing to face a new enemy, then quickly turn around.

It's Dismas – worn out and clearly unhappy, but still Dismas nonetheless.

He’s just standing at the entrance to the room, staring at you. His right arm is still tied, looking visibly broken and he doesn’t even have his scarf on – there's a bunch of barely healed wounds on his face, and you’re sure his clothes are hiding even more damage, but he’s still standing before you and breathing, so it’s all good. You didn’t fail completely.

You can feel your heart pounding in your chest.

>([fancy meeting ya #ere dizzy], you say, trying to remember how to be yourself, masking the overwhelming relief you feel upon seeing him alive. His disappointed, tired eyes suggest you’re doing a great job. >([noice #ome decor great atmosp#ere fo #ookups 11/10 would recommend]

/\re you ok/\y?///, he asks instead of answering your bullshit, pointing at your arm, and you remember there’s a deep slash on it. Most of your shirt and skin is covered in a thick, drying blood that gushed from the wound, suggesting some severity, but because it started to heal on its own, as all your injuries do, you've decided to completely ignore the fact it exists.

>([R.I.P. in peace to my fav s#irt], you say, pulling out the pieces of fabric out of the scabs and trying not to wince at the tight pull. >([kinda sad ya care ‘bout dis POS more t#an about ur partner t#o]

His eye twitches and you add a tally mark to the list of quickest caught baits in your life.

I don’t h/\\\/e time for this, do you need help or should I just le/\\\/e you /\lone?///, he asks in such an exhausted tone you consider toning it down a bit, before you remind yourself you have to commit to your act.

>([ya lookin a lil roug# round da edges scarface], you say with a practiced lazy smirk and an exaggerated wink. You force out a laugh and continue, >([ur like a baby leave u alone fo a sec n ya need anot#a scarf]

Murrit, could you shut the fuck up for /\ second /\nd just listen to me?!///, Dismas shouts and you freeze, not sure how to react.  You'\/e been ignoring e\/erything I'\/e s/\id since you'\/e got here /\nd I c/\n't fucking t/\ke it /\nymore!///

>([yea rig#t rite rig###t im listenin now babe stop bein so angy u look ugly as fuk w#en ur like dis tb#–], you answer, trying to keep calm, and you gasp when his fist connects with your face.

Your shades fall to the ground, broken into two uneven pieces. Your skin stings, probably scratched at the point of the impact. You blink rapidly, blinded by the sudden rush of light to your eyes.

He's never dared to hit you before, even when you were railing him up on purpose, pushing his buttons by picking at barely healed wounds.

The seriousness of the situation hits you like a train.

He growls and kicks the remains of your shades away, then extends his good hand and yanks you dangerously close to him. You lose balance and hold onto his clothes to not fall, dazed. He leans on the nearby column and groans quietly, and you realise how strained his arm must be from being overused in the last few days.

You feel a quick pang of guilt and immediately crush it. You can punish yourself for fucking up yet another thing when you're alone. Now you have to be strong for him or he will see your whole world's crumbling and you're not actually an almost omniscient gamemaster, but a scared little kid.

You force yourself to look him in the eyes.

Would you e\/en fucking c/\re if I died bec/\use you left me /\lone in this p/\thetic st/\te or /\re you so /\bo\/e e\/erything th/\t losing /\ bondm/\te wouldn’t e\/en hurt you?///, he snarls into your face and the relief you felt upon seeing him alive evaporates. It’s not his usual hissy fit when you overdo your teasing and actually hurt him a bit – his eyes are not only full of surprisingly cold rage but also hurt so deep you freeze for a moment.

You should answer with something suitably ironic, right? You can do this, you've done it for years, why can’t your brain create words? Why can’t you…

>([i–], you start, forcing yourself to maintain your usual smirk, but then you wheeze, surprising both of you. You suddenly realise you cannot breathe – inhaling and exhaling seem like a sisyphean labour; even your gills are unable to provide you with enough oxygen to function. You start to shake uncontrollably and your palms feel weirdly wet, so you look at them and there's byzantine blood dripping from your tightly gripped fists, from crescents you made by burying your nails into the skin of your palms.

Dismas looks at you in disbelief and you cannot stop yourself from sobbing out loud. It’s a gross, wet sound, unlike any other you made when you were with him, and you feel weak and exposed. You’ve never been so vulnerable, not even when you were laying with him naked after bonding and trying to bottle up all feelings that started bubbling up under your skin. All the moments when you pretend you’re some above-it-all, invincible godly being, finally catch up to you and the dam breaks. Your knees give in and you collapse, holding onto Dismas’ shirt like a lifeinee. The wall you've been building so carefully around your feelings for all those sweeps breaks completely and you start ugly crying into the fabric before you, hiding your gross violet face from your partner.

Murrit, wh/\t the fuck is going on?///, Dismas asks and you can hear a slight panic in his voice.

You're an extraordinarily good pretender but you feel tiredness setting into your bones and overwhelming pressure in your chest, and probably even at your best you couldn't have fooled him now, after he's seen you fall apart to pieces before him. You keep your face hidden in the soft, worn-out fabric of his shirt, hoping he'll let you stay like this a little longer before pushing you away forever. You count seconds in your head, your aspect literally letting you feel the time flowing through your fingers, and you try to take shallow breaths so all your senses won't get completely saturated with him on every level.

For the first time ever, there's no plan; you're not in charge of the game, you're one of the players – and you have to learn the rules.

You try to come up with an answer witty enough to at least gain a little bit of ground under your legs, but your head is terrifyingly empty. You search and search for any words and when you finally find some, they aren't what you expected but their despair feels familiar. You decide you can risk it all and finally say it out loud, to his face.

>([i love you.], you utter hopelessly. There’s nothing left for you to lose anymore.

He stiffens under your touch and you wait for him to push you away, to laugh at you and leave you here alone, thoroughly crushed and void of anything meaningful in your life.

Murrit, I…///, he starts, his voice so full of emotions you cannot name – and these unknown emotions make you scared – that it cracks. Finally, he takes a deep breath and finally breaks your heart to pieces, just like you were expecting him to. I don't lo\/e you///

You try to step away to be able to go away and wallow in your defeat, but he tightens his arm around you, keeping your face buried in his shirt, and you know you're strong enough to free yourself without an effort but the fact he still wants to keep you close, even after rejecting you, makes your stupid insides warm and your heart pound faster.

Stop th/\t, I'm not finished///, he says and even though he sounds surprisingly calm, you get ready for another stab in the back. You consider the worst possibilities quickly: he decides unbearable pain of being separated from the bondmate is better than seeing you ever again, he tells you he actually wants someone else in that quadrant, he… You sob louder, in spite of yourself, and his hands pet your back slightly, making your head spin. I s/\id stop th/\t. Seriously, listen to me inste/\d of doing wh/\te\/er the fuck you're doing right now///

You try to take deep breaths but you only manage to make yourself hiccup and shiver pathetically, glad he's holding you tightly pressed to his body and he cannot see your face without its usual smirking mask. >([i can handle rejection, you don't have to explain your–]

Gloved hand covers your mouth tenderly, stopping you from saying anything more, and he says in unusually soft tone, /\s I w/\s trying to s/\y, I m/\y not be ex/\ctly flushed for you right now but my feelings for you h/\\\/e been ch/\nging for some time now///

You stop breathing for a moment, unsure if you heard correctly. Even though you desperately want to believe in even the slightest possibility Dismas may not be completely rejecting you, it seems way too good to be true.

>([dis–], you stutter out, your voice trembling almost as hard as your body, and he puts more force into clamping his palm around your mouth to shut you up. C/\n't you keep quiet until I tell you I’m finished?///

For the first time in sweeps you decide to listen to him, instead of doing what you feel is right. You relax, trying to show him you’re going to behave and he can stop suffocating you. His grip on your mouth goes lax, then he slowly inhales and exhales a few times.

I me/\n if you \//\cill/\ted for me I should be /\ble to do the s/\me for you? Trolls ch/\nge their feelings from red to bl/\ck /\nd so forth /\ll the time /\nd it turns out fine, right?///, he says and you notice the slight edge to his voice that weren't there before. He actually sounds like he's trying to convince himself what he's telling you is true, and that makes your stomach clench. E\/eryone judges you for being /\ disgusting indecisi\/e scum /\nd you don't know if you h/\\\/en't m/\de /\ mist/\ke but it's not /\s b/\d /\s… Oh fuck th/\t, I c/\n't do it /\nymore, this is bullshit///

He grits his teeth loudly, then makes a frustrated, angry noise, his claws digging into your skin through you shirt.

How long h/\s this been going on? How m/\ny weeks h/\\\/e you been lying to my f/\ce /\bout "h/\ting me so, so much" without e\/en b/\tting /\n eye?///, he asks and even though he's not shouting, anger in his words make you panic slightly because you actually aren’t sure what the answer is.

You don’t remember when the urge to make him reach his full potential or at least snarl at you turned into a longing to see his face. You're not sure which night was the first you spent thinking about him continuously forcing you to rethink your life and at least try to not be a complete scumbag, and the fact that in return he doesn't actually need you as his kismesis because he pushes himself past his limits whether or not you provoke him to do so. You can’t pinpoint the moment when you suddenly realised why you keep glancing at the screen displaying him even when you didn’t want to record his failures. You can only guess when you understood that any attention he gives you is good enough for you to survive on it and you’ve decided to take the path of least resistance with cruel jabs and mockery. So you decide you should just give him your best estimation and say, >([probably little over a sweep?]

Ok/\y. /\nd this isn’t some weird b/\ckw/\rds w/\y of telling me I’m so we/\k /\nd p/\thetic you don’t think I’m worthy of being your kismesis /\nymore?///, he asks with a painfully strained voice, his body tense next to you.

You open your mouth and close it, realising how important this moment is for further development of not only this conversation, but your whole relationship. Honesty isn’t your strongest suit but you can force yourself to say, >([i think you’re one of the strongest people i’ve ever met and it’s one of the reasons why i started loving you instead of hating you.]

His body almost instantly relaxes and he exhales wheezily.

This is hil/\rious///, he says, chuckling in a way that suggests he doesn't actually find this situation funny. I'\/e been stuck here /\lone for long enough to get bored enough to st/\rt thinking /\bout stuff /\nd I'\/e re/\lised /\ lot of the feelings I interpreted /\s bl/\ck were /\ctu/\lly completely pl/\tonic h/\tred /\nd frustr/\tion. I w/\s so terrified I'd /\ccident/\lly bring it up during some he/\ted /\rgument /\nd inste/\d you fucking tell me you're flushed for me so it doesn't e\/en m/\tter///

The sudden pain radiating through your chest and quickly spreading through your body makes you think you're actually dying for a moment. Unfortunately, you don't drop dead to the ground, so you open your mouth to say something, but you are stopped by a palm – it tastes like blood, your own blood – firmly placed over your mouth once again.

You m/\de my life li\/ing hell. Sometimes I still w/\ke up in /\ cold swe/\t from \//\gue nightm/\res /\bout things you forced me to do, e\/en though none of us is supposed to be /\ble to /\ctu/\lly dre/\m bec/\use of the stupid dre/\msel\/es! I'\/e ne\/er w/\nted to kill /\nyone besides my lusus but there's so much blood on my h/\nds, Murrit! They will ne\/er be truly cle/\n /\g/\in, no m/\tter wh/\t I do, /\nd it's your fucking f/\ult!///, he says, sounding so bitter and miserable you want to travel in time and tear your past self to pieces for their transgressions. You knew about his countless sleepless nights, of course; how couldn't you have known when you kept an eye on him through surveillance your whole waking life. You were convinced his lusus was to blame, though, and this painful contradiction – that it was your failing, that you made the person you care about more than anyone else suffer through hell and you didn't even realise – forces you to wail into his soaked through shirt even harder. You don't understand why he’s still holding you, why he’s still giving you a chance after saying you destroyed his life. /\nd don’t you d/\re try to /\pologise now, it’s w/\y too l/\te /\nd I’m not sure if you c/\n /\ctu/\lly feel sorry /\bout /\ny of this. You'll just h/\\\/e to li\/e with this /\nd try to be better from now on///

>([i’m not sure if i can do it.], you say truthfully, thinking about all the emotions you don’t understand and all the cues you keep misinterpreting. You wish you could tell him how guilty you feel without making it sound insincere, but years of pretending made you lose that ability, so you just add, >([but i can promise i’ll try my best to not fuck it up again.]

Th/\t’s /\ pretty good st/\rt///, he tells you, still slightly tense. I didn’t /\ctu/\lly expect you to /\gree///

Both of you stay quiet for a moment, silence broken only by your laboured breathing. You feel Dismas shift awkwardly, trying not to disturb you too much, and you close your eyes, hiding your face deeper into his shirt and gather enough strength to force yourself to be vulnerable for a moment.

>([do you have any suggestions what…], you start and then shrug helplessly, not sure if you can find the right words right now. >([don’t make me say it, please.]

Do you w/\nt to know how to st/\rt undoing this whole mess we’re in?///, he supplies in a calm, soft tone and you look up to see his face. The blurriness from the tears and the darkness only slightly tinted with diffused pink glow obscures your view almost completely but you can tell he's staring back at you, so you nod shakily, not trusting your voice yet. You h/\\\/e to fin/\lly st/\rt tre/\ting me like /\ person /\nd not /\ funny test subject in your im/\gin/\ry science experiment. You insist on c/\lling me your p/\rtner but h/\\\/e you considered beh/\\\/ing like I’m /\ctu/\lly one? Letting me know wh/\t the fucking pl/\n is? Telling me the re/\l re/\son why should we st/\y /\w/\y from Ellsee? Not m/\king me do shit th/\t will hurt me just for your own che/\p entert/\inment?///

You swallow nervously, thinking about it. You don’t want to let him in – not because you think he’s not worthy of that knowledge or you think he needs to be sheltered from it, but because you hate the mere thought of sharing the burden of understanding the absolute hopelessness of your current situation. You want to keep that responsibility on your shoulders and your shoulders alone as long as you can until it crushes you completely because no one besides you deserves to feel the weird concoction of despair, fear and rage that fills you all the time, especially not him – not when he's finally allowed to live his own life without constant threat of his guardian's presence held over his head.

>([it's complicated and i can't really talk about it right now], you finally say. >([i swear it's not a "no", it's a "later"]

I'm not sure I trust you///, he admits and it stings, but you know you deserve it. I'm still willing to gi\/e you /\ ch/\nce though. I'm not going to lie /\nd tell you this whole thing will be e/\sy bec/\use it's prob/\bly going to be re/\lly fucking h/\rd for both of us, but…///

He stops for a moment and sighs, I like you enough to hope it'll get better, e\/entually///

It's hard to be a good person when you don't understand arbitrary rules of morals, you realise. You can say you've changed and that old Murrit is gone, but none of your friends believe you – and you feel like a liar every time when you promise you've left the life of crime so far behind you can't even remember it.

Not when you can easily recall the rush of adrenaline during every breaking and entering with a side dish of murder, now replaced with thrill of almost dying whenever you leave your respiteblock – not when you keep playing more and more games competitively – you keep making Laivan confused with the amount of effort you put into winning stupid Anthropormuncipality games and you can't tell him you're trying to stop the urge to pick up gambling again, itching under your skin, you can't make him disappointed – not when you decided to solve The Ellsee Problem with disappointingly unsuccessful murder, even after you promised Dismas you really forsaken killing for good.

You know you aren't a new Murrit; you are the same old Murrit under a thin layer of simultaneously very good and incredibly bad acting. Your whole personality is a metaphorical bandaid sloppily placed over a bone-deep cut, superficially covering up all the ugliness inside of you.

Maybe, no matter what you do, you're going to turn out to be a bad person after all.

>([you're taking this suspiciously well.], you note in surprise, trying to shake off the unsettling thoughts. >([i expected you to be furious, but you were only reasonably upset so far.]

Would you prefer this con\/ers/\tion went like our usu/\l /\rguments?///, he asks and you realise no, you wouldn't, even if you're standing on the entirely uncharted territory. You know how to deal with Dismas being angry at you – usually you can predict his reactions and control his behaviour with a deadly precision when he’s pissed off. This new, weirdly calm Dismas is scaring you a bit because you don’t have carefully crafted for sweeps strategy to outsmart him and you can only rely on your useless intuition – and yet you aren't completely terrified you'll fuck up this forever by stopping your usual charade.

Your chest feels tight when you realise you have an answer to your theory – you may be able to be a new Murrit – a different Murrit – after all.

M/\ybe I should…///, he says, breaking the mood, and before you have a chance to react, he pulls out his knife out of his sylladex and throws it at the lantern above you. The dagger shatters the glass and the shards explode all around you. You gasp, losing grasp on his clothes and almost falling further.

>([what the fuck was that?!], you ask, slightly shaken. You're quickly changing your mind – you're equally scared of every iteration of Dismas because you don’t know what you can expect to happen next anymore neither when he's calm nor when he's angry. It makes you feel so lost and yet, at the same time, relieved. The cards are out of your hands and you can't attempt to control him anymore, and you have to learn to live with it – though you're definitely not a fan of getting showered in the glass shards in the process.

I’m forced to pl/\y /\ g/\me th/\t, /\ccording to my denizen, w/\s designed to destroy our whole uni\/erse, my body is e\/en more disgusting /\nd perm/\nently disfigured th/\n it used to be not so long /\go, my piece of shit lusus w/\s sl/\ughtered by some deus ex m/\chin/\ piece of shit /\dult /\nd on top of th/\t, my kismesis h/\s just told me they don’t h/\te me /\nymore. I think I h/\\\/e /\ right to throw kni\/es /\t those ugly pink lights to relie\/e some tension///, he says, panting slightly, and you realise how exhausted he must be if simple act of using his weapon made him this tired. You decide to not bring it up right now, looking at his trembling arm and clenched fist.

>([how do you feel about it?], you ask and when he makes a questioning noise, you add, >([i mean, how do you feel about your lusus getting killed by some stranger, right before your eyes?]

I don’t re/\lly w/\nn/\ t/\lk /\bout it///, he says, stiffening up again. He’s de/\d /\nd I’m /\li\/e, th/\t’s /\ll I h/\\\/e to s/\y on the m/\tter///

You may be atrocious at reading emotions but even you can tell he’s lying. For a moment, you get overwhelmed with an urge to pick him apart to see what’s hiding inside, and you have to tighten your hands, piercing his shirt through with your claws.

You think about how similar both of you are, with lusi that chose you only so you'd care for them, a complete opposite of how bonding is supposed to be. You think about abuse and neglect that marked both of your childhoods.

You think about younger Dismas, a scared little kid, kidnapped and forced to do incredibly physically demanding heavy labour to feed his lusus for as long as he can remember, living on the false hope one day he'll get lucky enough to kill one of most dangerous Repitonian apex predators with his own hands and be free.

You think about younger Murrit, growing up with absolutely no affection or supervision, holed up with their barely alive lusus, latching onto the first real parental figure they've met, learning to deal with their problems in successively more and more unhealthy ways.

You think about how empty Dismas' eyes looked when you found him half-alive for the last time, half-submerged in the river, and you think about all violent urges you cannot suppress.

You think about your guardians being dead and the feeling of the relief you experience every time you think about their rotting corpses.

You think about how for sweeps you've been convinced the fact that your lusi species are mortal enemies means something deeper for your relationship – that maybe you are destined to always be kismesis, tangled in deadly rivalisation – but now you realise maybe the only real connection between your guardians is the simple truth that neither were fit to raise a kid.

You also think about the fact that Dismas knows almost nothing about the things you’ve been through, because you’ve carefully guarded all information that may make you seem weak in his eyes, and that you have to start letting him in if you want this to work.

>([i–], you start, forcing yourself to go against your instinct that screams at you to not make yourself even more vulnerable or you will actually get hurt this time. >([dismas, i–]

Your throat closes up, preventing you from telling him the truth, and you want to kick yourself for being such a pathetic mess. He told you his deepest secret, why can’t you do the same for him? He literally begged you to treat him like his equal and yet here you are, stuck in your habit of protecting him from all the hurt you can while simultaneously causing more harm than good by accident.

>([i don’t fucking know how to interpret feelings and i keep guessing wrong, and i’m so fucking tired of making you miserable with it.], you force out and it’s like dam broke, you cannot stop talking now. >([remember that time i asked you if you wanted me to apologise because your lusus almost killed you? i realised it would've been my fault for making you go outside but i genuinely wasn’t sure if you were actually upset with me because you always said you're fine with all my bullshit and i haven't realised it was a lie for so long, and i only realised that weird overwhelming emotion i've been feeling was guilt when you told me you didn’t expect me to actually be sorry for causing you harm, but it was way too late to say something because you’d assume i’m being cruel and ironic, so i just kept going with it, and–]

You start hyperventilating, your gills twitching and your mouth open, but there’s no oxygen in your lungs, and you consider for a moment if you’re actually dying from embarrassment.

Dismas awkwardly pets your back and it immediately makes the knot in your chest loosen up enough for you to take an actual breath and not asphyxiate.

You try to relax, focusing on the slow, mechanical way his hand glides back and forth between your shoulder blades and the way his stomach slightly rises when he breathes in. Surprisingly, it helps a lot.

Honestly, this is /\ lot to t/\ke in///, he says, still caressing your back. But it's good to know you /\ctu/\lly c/\re /\bout my opinion. So… th/\nks, I guess?///

He taps his fingers on your neck nervously and you mentally congratulate yourself on making this conversation even more awkward.

>([do you regret being stuck here?], you ask, realising you can use the already uncomfortable situation to find out some more information. You hope he either sees right through your words and calls you out on your bullshit or completely ignores it.

I miss Jenth/\ so much it hurts /\nd those few d/\ys without her were /\ re/\l fucking nightm/\re///, he admits in a strained voice. I think I m/\y /\lso miss my hi\/e, e\/en though I don't think I'd e\/er w/\nt to go b/\ck to li\/ing there /\fter… e\/erything th/\t h/\ppend there///

You try not to feel too hurt when he doesn't mention missing you but it makes your stomach churn painfully. He's probably assumed you know he was happy to see you and he's missed you – of course he did, his body literally craves your closeness like a drug – but you need a clear confirmation he still cares about you, that you're still worth of his time.

But no, I don't wish I w/\s still tr/\pped on Repiton with th/\t fucking liz/\rd, forced to w/\ste my life /\w/\y in /\ mine so I c/\n feed him r/\dio/\cti\/e shit until he becomes strong enough to kill me, isol/\ted from e\/eryone I c/\re /\bout – so stop bl/\ming yourself for this, idiot///

You weigh in his answer and you decide he's being completely honest. Somehow, it fails to make you feel better about this situation.

/\lso fuck, I'm dr/\ined///, he whispers, leaning back and sighing deeply. I thought th/\t if I were /\ble to li\/e on only /\nger and h/\tred for liter/\l sweeps, I c/\n just st/\rt fighting /\g/\inst hordes of enemies to keep myself going, but it's just m/\de me feel miser/\ble plus my /\rm hurts like bitch when I try to use it for /\bsolutely /\nything, so I'm fucking tired /\nd I w/\nn/\ go to sleep for /\ moment///

You understand the unspoken part of his words – the emotionally draining talk is over for now. You can probably continue it tomorrow, after both of you rest for the night, or whenever you feel ready to.

It's a nice offer and you take him up on it, exhaling nervous breath you didn't even know you were holding, then you finally stop hiding your face inside his shirt and try to look around.

You're dirty///, he notes, then he pulls out his scarf out of sylladex, wraps his hand under your chin, lifting it up, and starts gently cleaning the blood, grease and tears off your face. You gasp, caught completely off-guard with such tenderness, and then you start to protest. >([dis, your hand will hurt even more and it's really fucking gross, it's not worth it, i can do it myself.]

He looks at you like you're a petulant kid throwing a temper tantrum, so you shut up and just close your eyes, enjoying the moment. The fabric feels surprisingly soft on your painfully raw skin, wiping off all the sand particles that got trapped in the moisture.

Murrit, you’re just /\ mort/\l. Stop pushing yourself p/\st your limits for once /\nd… just rest with me here for /\ while?///

He gnaws at his lip, visibly unsure about the whole situation. You don't want to leave him waiting, so you try to say something, but your tongue seems wrong and your mouth feels like it's full of cotton, so you decide to nod instead. You finally relax your grip on his shirt and let your arms loosely wrap around his waist. >([i should probably get up, right?]

He extends his good hand to you and you grab it, feeling surprised. Wounds on your palms have already healed, but the dried blood left stains and you start to pick at them nervously. They flake off under the pressure of your bare claw.

You suddenly think about all the times Dismas was laying on the floor of your hive, painting his nails, and you wished you had asked him to paint yours.

You want to kiss him so bad it hurts but instead you just laugh obnoxiously and say, >([i can’t believe we discussed our deepest secrets in that position.]

You are aware you are deflecting and trying to turn your serious confessions into a joke, but you cannot undo years of carefully crafted personality and complete lack of emotional awareness in one day – actually, you don’t know if you can do it at all because for a longest time you've been having trouble distinguishing what’s real about you and what's just an amusing façade you're hiding behind.

In a moment of sudden brilliance, you understand you desperately need a moirail, and then you immediately decide to bury this thought into a tiny box at the back of your mind. You're not ready to be vulnerable before another person; even now, keeping your walls down for long enough to let him in and show him a glimpse of your true feelings makes your skin crawl. You don't want them to know you're not a mastermind behind the screen, that you're actually pathetic and weak, and so, so scared about the future your stomach keeps twisting even at mere thought of tomorrow finally happening.

He squeezes your hand softly, and you try to calm down to stop yourself from spiraling deeper into the self-loathing.

Instead, you decide to sit on some overturned pillar and concentrate on observing him.

He goes to pick up the knife, gracefully avoiding the shards of glass, and the way he smiles when he grips the handle reminds you he's not as defenseless as you sometimes feel he is.

He sits next to you and leans on the wall, visibly exhausted.

His lips look incredibly cracked and dry, and there’s a few sand particles stuck on his philtrum. You cannot stop yourself from reaching out and using your fingertip to swipe them off, then softly brushing it along the scar next to it. It feels like sandpaper against your skin and you've never felt more in love than right now.

He wraps his hand around your wrist and pulls it away from his head. You try to hide the sting of disappointment and by the look of his face, you fail miserably. You open your mouth to assure him you support him finally setting some boundaries but before you can utter even a word, he bends down and kisses you.

It's completely different from any other kisses you shared before, with no desperate fight for dominance and anger. You were convinced you knew Dismas' mouth inside-out, from the amount of pressure your teeth need to put on his skin before it breaks to the way texture of his scars feels weird against your lips, but this feels like your first kiss again – with a lot less accidental nose bumping and no saliva dripping down your chin and with a lot more tenderness and practiced ease. His hand gets slightly tangled in your hair and he accidentally scratches your scalp, and it should feel black but it's so red your heart aches.

When you part, you feel breathless and giddy from joy. There’s a soft blush on his cheeks and you feel dizzy at the thought of him enjoying kissing you enough for a visible reaction.

You don’t have time to overthink it, because he kisses you again, and again, and again. You don’t remember him initiating more than two kisses in the whole two-sweep span of your relationship. You feel weird letting him take control like this, but it doesn’t feel bad, like you thought it would, just different.

You keep kissing until both of you are flushed and out of breath, and his body is warm next to yours.

You're glad you're still alive.

Do you w/\nt to throw /\w/\y your disgusting fucking shirt /\nd we/\r my T-shirt inste/\d? It’s /\lso /\ bit gross but /\t le/\st it’s not co\/ered in blood, /\nd it’s w/\y too cold here for you to sit /\round h/\lf n/\ked///

He’s trying to sound normal, but you can see he’s blushing. You would tease him about it but you’re almost completely sure your face has an interesting bright byzantine shade right now and you're too afraid he will notice. Instead, you say, >([dat would be nice but u dont #afta do dis fo some stupid faggot]

Using your usual language and tone feels natural, so you slip into it seamlessly, like it’s your second skin, when the tension between both of you dissipates. Maybe in the future you will drop it for good, cutting off another old Murrit away completely. Maybe, but probably not – the last time led to this situation and you don’t need a repeat of this whole tragicomedy. You remind yourself you’re allowed to change slowly, without pretending to be someone else instantly, and that you won’t be left alone if you make a mistake.

I don't need to be in lo\/e with you to c/\re /\bout your wellbeing, dumb/\ss. Plus, I still h/\\\/e my turtleneck///

Instead of forming next argument just to keep upper hand, you decide there are some arguments worth losing and say, >([k but i aint payin fo strippin]

He rolls his eyes and quickly pulls his T-shirt off and extends his hand with it to you, and you do your best to pretend you hadn’t noticed the way he grimaces while moving his broken arm.

You part with the remains of your shirt without any regrets and accept his offering gladly. His clothes are simultaneously too big and too short for you, so you look like an idiot – but somehow, it feels like a perfect fit for you.

>([world cold n #ard but t#anks to u titty soft n warm], you say, pulling him into your arms. He snorts, relaxing in your grip and putting his head on your chest, and you sit like this for a while, just enjoying the moment.

Everything’s still not okay.

You get a glimpse of his arm when he changes bandages and there’s a gnarly, barely healed scar in the place where the fractured bone pierced his skin. He tries to pretend it’s nothing and you decide you shouldn't poke at the matter until he breaks and screams the truth at you, as usual. You don’t exactly understand why but it seems he’s having a surprisingly difficult time dealing with the current situation. You know he's his own worst critic, judging every mistake he makes way harsher than you'd ever dare to, and you’re worried he’s blaming himself for stuff that isn’t his fault. You wish you could help him in any way, but for the first time in your life you understand some problems are not meant for you to fix. You hope your silent support and Jentha’s more vocal one will be enough for him to pull through.

You’re terribly scared when you catch yourself considering what will happen in the future, thinking about the game – about all the awful things Ellsee can and probably will do. You wish you were in your hive and could burn the restless energy your anxiety creates in your body by completing a crazy routine of traps you set all over it.

There's a barely visible scar on your arm in the place where you were injured today. You carefully ignore the quiet voice inside your head telling you lowered your guard and let the enemy scratch you on purpose, just because you needed a proof you’re still alive and pain to punish yourself for every mistake you’ve made. Your brain is filled with violence and death, and you cannot tune out the thoughts as well as you pretend you're able to. Maybe one day you’re going to be ready to stop lying to yourself and adress it with someone, but today’s way too early to see just what exactly got buried under the sweeps of pretending.

But for now, things are good enough.

Dismas sits next to you and tries to poke you with his foot. His hip joint creaks weirdly when he lifts up his leg too far and he huffs in frustration. You cannot stop yourself pulling further away to make it harder for him to reach you – old habits die hard.

He smacks you with his hand instead and you snort. It’s the usual routine but this time it feels somehow nicer.

Murrit, I beg you to stop o\/erthinking e\/erything /\nd go to sleep while I’m still interested in sh/\ring my bl/\nket with your ugly /\ss///, he says, snaking his arm around your waist to pull you up. You purposefully make both of you trip and position yourself in a way that cushions his fall. He lands on you and reflexively growls angrily. You would continue flirting with him, but you’re genuinely too exhausted to get this any further, so you just help him get up and proudly announce, >([dis is w#atc#a get fo makin fun of my ass]

He laughs at you, then grabs your hand to lead you somewhere, and your brain stops working for a moment because he's never wanted to hold hands with you before.

When you come to your senses, you're in a different cavern, with way less lights and slightly cracked cleaning, and few of his belongings scattered in one corner.

Dismas unceremoniously takes off his boots, then he throws himself on the blanket, leaving enough space for you. You smile and join him, wrapping yourself around his body – for a moment you feel uncomfortable about your long, awkward limbs, then you forcefully stop thinking about it – and hide your face in the crook of his neck.

He falls asleep almost immediately, but for some reasons, even though you're tired, your body's still restless.

You look at the sky through the cracks in the ceiling above you, it’s clear and full of stars but you know somewhere else it is dark and clouded, and it will doom you all soon if you don't do something about it.

You're still terrified of the future, almost sure you're going to be forced to sacrifice yourself to save them all.

You want to die in a meaningful way – you don't want to die at all – you want to lay here forever – you can't stay like this – you can't allow yourself any rest until you know you've done everything you can – you -

You bite your cheek, forcing yourself out of the panicked spiralling. The wound heals almost immediately, but the aftertaste of blood keeps you grounded.

Dismas sleeps soundly next to you, making you feel incredibly warm in a literal and metaphorical sense, and you know it may not last – that it probably won’t last and he’ll wake up kicking and screaming, and clawing at an invisible threat, and it’s all your fault – but you want to enjoy it while it does, because you have to let yourself be happy.

So you close your eyes, cuddle closer to the warm body next to you and for once you drift to sleep without worrying about tomorrow.

**Author's Note:**

> to [my boyfriend](https://twitter.com/bonegender): thank you for making me read vast error. without you, this fic wouldn't have happened. i love you
> 
> additional thanks to [mars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercurialHekate/profile) for correcting all of my spelling mistakes
> 
> find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/unclaspedKahuna)


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